


Memento

by Nepheline (orphan_account)



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Amnesia, F/F, Human AU, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-05-14 00:04:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5722117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Nepheline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luck has its limits, and Amethyst finds hers at the end of it -  just about the worst case scenario, an amnesiac with no sense of direction or residence. It's when she finds most unexpected aid that she begins to question her own fate and the meaning of 'coincidence'. It's a small world. (Pearlmethyst, second person POV. Multichapter.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seed

You breathe in. The cold airs of January make your throat feel cold, and you have to resist an unpleasant urge to cough. You look downwards, towards partially torn, cheap shoes that shield your feet from the cruelty of the ground, and stare at the leather, which sticks out uncomfortably and unappealingly in some places. They're your least worries, but a decent pair would have helped you as you stagger forwards, feet dragging upon a gravel path. You're vaguely aware of many pairs of eyes fixed on you, with what you aren't sure is concern to begin with, but don't waste time with addressing any of them. Your clothing feels thin, and you lay a hand upon the material of your shirt and clasp it. It feels cold.

You don't recognize the streets - not the rows of houses that line up in your sight, not the significant lack of greenery that goes past people's sickeningly picture-perfect front yards, and the airs of the place feel unfamiliar and almost suffocative in their own way. You find it particularly hard to focus - your vision is clear, but is lost elsewhere. You're increasingly self-aware that the leather can no longer protect the skin of your feet as well as they did hours ago. Cold.

Bruises litter your face, and they sting a little as the wind brushes against them. Cold.

You want to stop, badly. Cold.

It takes a moment for you to snap back to your senses, and even then, they begin wander. You stand in front of a door of wooden material, fresh white walls surrounding it, and become aware that you've trespassed into somebody's property. You bang, anyway, with as much strength you can muster and channel into your fists. Cold. You only need shelter. To analyze your situation? That's another problem. The door flings open, and you see a thin, pale shape, but you're unable to see their face.

You want to speak - an intended "Hello, I'm sorry to bother, I'm lost and I was wondering whether you could provide me with shelter for a day or so. I promise I won't steal anything" turns into a meagre "Please". It's not socially acceptable to do that - especially if you look like you have a permanent look of 'having been run over by a truck', and especially to a stranger. But you're desperate, and willing to lose every ounce of your dignity if it means avoiding the streets. You've seen how its inhabitants look - too hollow, too deprived of life, and you're thoroughly creeped out by even the prospect of retreating to a similar life, especially right away, and especially in that state of yours.

Cold.

That's not the entirety of what envelops you.

The stranger takes a hesitant step away, and you suddenly feel self-conscious. It's so humiliating.

You collapse before you can muster up any more words to explain yourself. Cold. Sore. It's not even winter, and it's the only thing that comes to mind when you think of yourself. Coherent thoughts are a little hard to do, and you allow the few ones you have to drift away.

\-----------------------------

You don't know what to expect when you awaken. The ceiling is unfamiliar, and, God, does it look like it's in need of some serious repair. You're dazed, and your face stings, and you feel your head throbbing with pain. This is definitely not death - you wonder why you even thought you'd die. Sure, you looked like shit, but it wasn't that terrible. The next thing you notice is linen sheets wrapped around your body, and you're laying on a soft surface.

Relief washes over you like a wave suitable to surf on - what do you know about water, anyway? You don't recall taking a trip to the sea. You don't recall warm, grainy sand. You don't recall anything, to be exact - only that you're immensely glad that whoever you met didn't call the police immediately. You shift, and unwrap the sheets from yourself. You can hear faint sounds of shuffling, footsteps, the chink of a glass against another, a cough, but don't care to lift your pounding head to look, and instead rest and hope it will pass. Will it? Probably. Probably not without some form of medicine. The sofa you're laid upon is wide enough to sit upon, but you're painfully aware that you can end up on the ground with one wrong turn.

You finally lift yourself up a little - you're still lying, and clinging to the warmth, but you can see from behind the back of the sofa. The wallpaper is terrible, but you don't feel it appropriate to even crinkle your face in disgust. You see kitchen islands, cabinets, and a girl. Thin, delicate hands holding a plate over what the sink, one rubbing it in a rhythmic fashion. If she notices you're awake, she doesn't show it. She doesn't even peer in your direction and merely turns the plate over, repeats, rinses, and picks out something else. You don't know why, but it feels almost soothing to watch.

As nice it is to observe, you feel uncomfortable. You don't want to startle her, and you don't know what to say, anyway. You sit up and adjust yourself in a seated position, and you get a better look. Peachy hair that doesn't go very far past her shoulders, and it complements her complexion very well. She looks at you - or in your direction - for a brief moment, and you catch a glimpse of light blue, but find that she doesn't seem too interested in you. She merely walks off towards something else, and you're confused.

"Hi," You finally call out. Good grief, you even sound like shit. She turns to look at you, again, and you try to offer her a smile. She doesn't return the gesture, but doesn't seem displeased, either.

"Hello." She responds coolly, and for the few moments of awkward silence you get between you two, you inspect her eyes. They don the colour of the skies - definitely not the ones that you saw earlier, but the type you see during sunny, warm summer days. She seems to expect you to say anything further, and you expect questions, but she doesn't ask any, only watching you with subtle curiousity. You clear your throat a little.

"Uh, what happened?"

You know exactly what happened - but hearing it from somebody else is a nice confirmation. She narrows her gaze and shrugs.

"You fell on my doorstep. I felt it would be impertinent to leave you outside - and you were injured, so I took care of that, too, as much as I could." is her response. Her voice is light and sweet and feels like honey on your ears. You're surprised that she regards this so calmly, and wonder whether she's ever done that before with other desperate idiots banging on her door. You feel your face turn a shade of red, for some reason. You're not too fond of physical contact, and the very thought that you had been in a state where you'd have had to have somebody's hands upon your skin feels mildly disturbing. Even handshakes are not something you find yourself doing too often. You're not going to mention that - your wounds are patched, if not a little clumsily, and your features don't feel like somebody had been stepping on them for 3 hours straight, and it doesn't really matter, anyway.

"Thanks."

Thanks? Is that all you have to say?

"You're welcome."

You hadn't had many conversations throughout your consciousness, and the few that you did were awkward and short. Just like this one seems to be. The girl doesn't seem to be interested in pestering you with questions, and resumes her own mindless activities. You're confused - that's not how it works; and you're relieved, because there are no possible questions that could come out of this scenario that you can answer. You don't know anything. Not even your name.

You stand up - the house is not nearly as warm as your protective shield of sheets was, and the contrast of temperatures dazes you for a moment. You're still in your old clothes, and they look terrible, but at least your shoes are off, and you enjoy the feeling of the carpeted floor beneath you. You gaze at your host, opening your mouth to say something, and then closing it again. You don't know what her intentions are, and wonder whether she's just politely not asking you to leave like you should. Something lights up in your mind- you don't even know her name. You didn't ask. Well, neither did she, but you feel it's just rude of you.

"And... what do I call you?" You really need to shape up on your conversational skills.

"Pearl."

Pearl. The way it rolls off her tongue sounds so charming. You find a smile crawling upon your features - you're quite fond of her already. You're an intruder, though, and a little too lucky. "I dun have any names that I know of. Sorry." Shame washes you - even in the depths of your brain, you just cannot recall a single memory that would relate to your identity. She nods understandingly, though, and approaches, staring at your neck, and you realized you had somehow forgotten about the dangling necklace. It's the only decent item you seem to own, with a violet vial attached upon it - you had been rather protective of it. Thank an earlier incident with a petty thief.

"That looks like an amethyst," She comments, and picks up the vial - you flinch slightly when her fingers accidentally brush lightly against your chest as she does so. She studies it, almost too intensely. "Do you know anything about this?"

An amethyst. No, you don't know anything about it, either, but it sounds pretty, and you feel a sense of familiarity when Pearl pronounces its name. Almost as if... "I guess you can call me that."

"Call you what?"

"Y'know... that thing."

"The amethyst?" She smiles. Oh, God, she smiles. It's so radiant, and you hadn't seen her do so up until now, and you feel like it's infecting you. "Yes! I don't see why not. At least until you find your identity. You know, it kind of suits you, after all."

Does it really?

She says 'you'. You'll find your identity. Of course you will, but she doesn't say 'we'. She doesn't offer her help, and you feel mildly disappointed - but, after all, you're strangers to each-other, and she's under no obligation to aid you past that point. You nod quickly, and she releases her grip on the vial. It falls back on your chest.

"What do you plan to do from now on?"

You have no idea. "Maybe I'll go to the hospital. Or the police. They can help. Thanks for your help, er, Pearl. I better be going."

"So you're not even staying for dinner?"

The question throws you back a little, in a pleasant manner. You'd love to stay for dinner, but you also don't want to owe her more than you already do. She stares patiently, and no matter how easy the answer is to say, you don't respond. It doesn't mean anything to you - you'd probably be on your way anyway following that, and maybe she's just being nice. You do look like you were dragged straight from the streets... which isn't too far from the truth, really.

"Well, are you inviting me?"

"Yes."

That's the worst approach to finding out anything about yourself past a name given on a whim, but you're hungry, and a trip to the hospital at that time of day would prove tiresome to you - nighttime is possibly the least safe option, too. And Pearl has that curious glimmer in her eye - you can only wonder. "Then I have no reason to say no."


	2. Roots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy jesus I did not expect feedback so soon aaaAAAAAAA THANK YOU  
> also I'm new to Archive of Our Own so please bare with me thanks

This town, village, place, whatever - it's weird. Not as much because you aren't accustomed to it, but its inhabitants just don't seem to be surprised by anything. That's what your impression is, anyway. They didn't look very welcoming or helpful earlier, and if you were stared at, it never lasted for long. Maybe it was because you were in one of your less healthy states that you didn't seem to remember a single face, because it wasn't your goal to remember, but they were just so /forgettable/. Like a passing thought or a dream. You don't know if that's your own delusions or not.

Pearl isn't too different. You're fond of her, really, and she has her distinguished facial features and movements and appearance, but you feel like if you left for a day, your brain wouldn't be able to give you a reminder. Then again, you're tired and dazed and confused, and your own worries prey on your mind, so this might be just a temporary thought that fuels your anxiety. You learn of the name of the city - you're in some distant part of Waterbury. Your problem is that it feels so detached, and you wonder if that's the result of your own presence. You're new, an easy target, and puzzled in a place where nothing is clarified.

You must be exaggerating. That sounds like a ridiculous sentiment.

You nearly roll off your sofa. You don't even feel tired - it just feels really nice on your stiff back. You're back in the earlier routine - silence enveloping the room, broken only by Pearl's moving on and about and usage of objects. You hear the hiss of a teapot, at some point, and wonder whether you like tea at all. You had offered your help earlier - not like you wanted to, or knew how to, but you felt obliged to anyway. She refused it and told you to make yourself at home, but you're not sure whether you'll be able to. It feels /wrong/. It feels like you shouldn't have been there, like it was some sort of a shift in your fate. What IS your fate?

You sit up, stretch, and stand up. The room is a little warmer now, and you appreciate it. Hell, you could even get used to this if it weren't a scenario where you pretty much turned up uninvited. You can hear cars from outside, but it's too dark to see out the window. You don't even want to think about how it would be when you'd be forced to accept the chilly darkness rather than observe it from a comfortably lit room. The wallpaper ruins the mood, though - you hate that with a passion and secretly hope that this really isn't in Pearl's tastes. Granted, she's been here much longer than you have, and still...

"It's ready!"

Wait, what? What's ready?

Oh, yeah. You were going to dine with her. You look on as she places plates upon the table, and then porcelain cups, and seats herself. You follow, sitting on the opposite side, and gaze at your dish - that looks like lamb meat. Were you ever a vegetarian in your life? If you were, then it must have been a shame, because it looks very tempting, and it doesn't help that you haven't eaten for a long while. Pearl peers at you, curiously.

"Do you say grace?"

"What?"

The question catches you off-guard, and you shake your head. You don't think so, at least. Does she?

"Why, are you Christian?"

"My parents were," She responds, arranging the cutlery on her own space. She looks so painfully casual with you, like you're long-time friends that have just reconnected, and you briefly wonder whether you are to begin with. "It's become a habit even now that they don't reside with me. You don't have to do it with me, but I'd like that I do it before we start, if you don't mind."

You shrug dismissively; really, it isn't your business. She clasps her hands, shuts her eyes, and delivers a quiet, short-lasted thanks. It's over before you even have time to even consider starting before her, and you dig in as soon as she does. You hadn't realized just how hungry you were, and devour the meal a little too quickly; maybe it's precisely because your stomach is empty enough to accept pretty much anything, but it tastes wonderful.

You think about religion - you like thinking you can be self-sufficient, and heavily doubt that you ever worshipped any sort of deities in your life. It's interesting to ponder upon, though, and the idea that there's someone so high up the hierarchy of this world that it goes above it is entertaining. Somewhat, anyway. You don't care much for it - had there been a God for you, and a merciful one too, you wouldn't be such a /stranger/, especially to yourself. Pearl's movements are slow and steady, with a pattern to them, as she helps herself to her own portion.

There's no conversation, and you start feeling a little antsy.

"Hey, Pearl?" She lifts up her head and puts the fork down, blinking. "Um, I hate to ask this, but, did your invite extend only to dinner, or..."

/Wow/. You're a rude fuck, aren't you? She isn't obliged to do anything more for you, and you regret speaking up, sinking down in your seat a little. She remains silent, and you don't want to look at her face for confirmation.

"Well," She hums, "You did say you had to go."

"I have nowhere to go to." You reply, a little bitterly. "Even if I do find the hospital, it'd be a mess. And I'm a little scared." Admitting it to anybody else other than yourself feels weird, but you've said it. You're alone, and practically guilttripping this woman to offer her aid, or at least it feels like it. She nods.

"I don't have a spare room, unfortunately."

"That's fine with me. I can have the floor, too."

"Then it's settled. Not the floor part, of course, that's uncomfortable." You don't even need a confirmation; both of you just know. You get a really strong urge to hug Pearl, but that would be awkward for both parties, and you quietly repress it. "Under one condition. Clean up after yourself, please, and help me with chores every once in a while. I could use an extra hand."

"Sure thing." That's two conditions. Granted, the first one is a given. "Thanks. I mean it."

And you didn't mean it before?

You don't even know how long your stay will be - did you ever have a family? If you did, that would be kind of nice, but inevitably foreign; Whoever it was would know an entirely different person than you are at the moment. Anxiety creeps over you, again, and you frown, clutching your vial weakly. It's not hard to tell that it's a relatively cheap trinket, and even if you knew where it originates from, it's nothing special. You need to get back on your feet, in any case, so you wouldn't have to freeload for an uncomfortably long period of time.

Pearl stands up, picking up your nearly empty plate (you don't want to admit that you would have licked it clean had this not been an ugly sight), and hers, which has a few leftovers and stains, then retreats to the kitchen. Your eyelids feel heavy, and your chest warm, but you aren't tired. "Want some help with that?"

"Good, you're starting already. But, no, not at the moment - I should be done soon."

You approach, anyway, and she steps aside. You know, it's a nice gesture to offer your help, but you have no idea where to begin. You reach for a pair of yellow rubber gloves and slip them on, and they feel uncomfortable on your hands. You're NOT touching those stains with bare hands.

"Let me show you-"

"No, I know what to do."

"Do you?"

"...No."

She turns on the sink - it takes a few seconds for the water to start steaming as it fills it up. You observe as she squirts detergent into the water, and then onto the sponge. "It's better if you start with the cutlery."

You've barely started, and you're already somewhat grossed out by the duty. But you finish up the forks easily enough and set them aside, and Pearl nods at you in approval. You pick out one of the dishes, and turn the sponge around.

"No, don't do that!" Pearl interrupts you, "Food will only stick to it if you scrub it from this side. See, you have to-"

She's reaching out to guide your movements.

You haven't even made the slighest of physical contact before you impulsively slap her hand away and take a brisk step back. Embarrassment washes over you, and you attempt to stammer out an apology; Pearl only looks slightly startled, but otherwise no anger is written over her features.

"It's, um, my haphephobia." You learned of the term earlier on, and the sound of it displeases you. It sounds medical, professional, abnormal. "Sorry. Didn't mean to."

"Why don't you go and rest for the night," She offers, gently. You feel her voice is somewhat patronizing for the first time, like a teacher telling a distraught student that they can go elsewhere to calm themselves down, but you don't complain. There's no point to it. "I'll finish those. We can try again later, and I'll just talk. Is that okay with you?"  
.  
You're too alert to rest any longer.


	3. Bud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A change of POV.

Warm water trickles down your bare skin, and you lift up your hands to wipe it onto your features. The sensation of warmth onto cold skin is very pleasurable, and you let yourself soak. The strands of your blonde hair feel heavier, and some stick to your face in a way they refuse to when dry. Your hair is just never truly tame no matter what you apply to it.

You squirt shampoo onto your palm and watch as some of it drips down, then cup your hands in a vain attempt to even it out.

Somehow, at some point, your thoughts drift to your mother.

She's always been some sort of an otherworldly being - even with the age marks that you contributed to that crawled over her entire body, you could see why everybody who spoke of her always had a slight spark to their gaze and tone of voice. She was pale - just like you - with a rosy hint that differentiated it from pure white, and that alone was viewed as a worry. Waves of sunshine that framed her face, the figure of a ballerina, and she resembled a flower among empty, desolate fields, or a little fairy dancing upon delicate petals.

She had many suitors, and once she had settled, with a man of gentle grace almost equal to her own, others became occupied with excited chatter of an equally beautiful child that would match her beauty and temper, as if your family was their concern. Your mother would brush them off, laughing with practiced charm, and would often say she's not rushing into motherhood just yet. She had many, many friends, far too many.

You massage the shampoo onto your scalp and throw your head back.

Then you came along.

You were a beautiful baby, sure - every newborn is beautiful in their own way. But then you wouldn't feed, and the doctor was of little help when you weren't even concerned with the bottle. You screamed when people cooed at you and tried to pick you up for a cuddle, you shrieked when they played peekaboo, and you didn't calm down long after they left, frustrated with your baby temper and no longer enchanted by the lack of similarity between you and the grown /adult/ who had birthed you. What did they expect? You were so little.

You grew up almost nothing like your mother. Bony, sickly, and you couldn't quite inherit your mother's golden curls - yours were blonde, sure, but sagged like they were in a permanent state of mourning. What of? Your appearance? In all honesty, all you've ever known from your mother is appearance. You never really heard whether she was kind and gentle or the strongest contradiction ever. You never really knew whether she gave to the poor or screamed at starving old ladies and men in the street. You never really knew whether she loved you most sweetly or felt embarrassment fill her eyes whenever she did as much as peer towards you.

You rinse out your hair. Foam drips down onto the floor.

She never really left your small family, but you never felt her presence. She shone as brightly as the sun whenever around others, blinding and grasping at stolen words. You remember distinctly you locked eyes, once, and you had frowned a frown of many unpleasant emotions - she was dried out, wilted petals of a sweet flower deprived of sunlight. And even in that state, she retained a look of charisma you couldn't comprehend.

Sometimes, you watched her in the shower. You'd slip in, quickly, hoping the door doesn't creak too much, and observe as she stood there, unmoving, hair thrown backwards and eyes shut while droplets occasionally roll off her eyelashes. The water would run for a while, and she never really did anything. Not to her skin, not to her hair - though you've always suspected she just doesn't wash it in that house - and then she'd straighten her posture, and you would know to slip out before she turned the handle.

You were jealous. It wasn't ever anything that warranted petty pranks or snarky speech, but you were seething with jealousy by the time you were in your teens and not a bit as attractive as you wished you were while she aged gracefully. Your relationship with her has always been weird and probably based on mutual tolerance. You hated being her shadow. You hated that nearly every time you were looked at by people you know, it was disappointment in their eyes that they couldn't see a tiny bit of her. You dyed your hair once. You got earrings, you got contact lenses, you got dresses, you got anything that you thought would at least differentiate you.

And you killed her.

Not literally - if you were ever asked to pick up a weapon and cause her any sort of harm, you would vehemently decline. But she fell ill, and you found, with horror, that you felt delight whenever you looked at her tired face, now nearly completely deprived from the sunlight a flower deserves. You had to suppress smiles crawling onto your face whenever she declined a mere cup of tea for a boost to her spirits, and you felt sweet satisfaction at the sound of a cough. Why? She had never done a single thing to you. Never lifted a single finger and never raised her voice.

Maybe you were just a terrible person.

You feel yourself getting cold despite the warmth of the water. You turn the handles, and take a tiny step backwards as the water changes temperature and is eventually reduced to steady dripping. You're definitely cold now.

Your mother passed away when you were 17. Your father - a figure you knew even less - did not weep, and neither did you. You could still tell, despite having not known him, that he was a changed man. He tried to pay attention to you, but was distant, and eventually you stopped speaking altogether. He left one day, just as you were reaching your twentieth year, and you found that you don't feel a difference.

The door slides open, and you shriek, using your thin arms to attempt to cover your modest parts. Before you stands a dazed, short figure, who seems just as startled as you and nearly falls back. You inhale sharply.

"Shit," She curses, then immediately turns away from you. "I'm so sorry! I thought you were out because the- water wasn't running and I-"

By the time you've regained composure, Amethyst is out of the bathroom. You take the moment to dry however much you can of yourself with a towel, then slowly peek out; Cool air brushes against your skin, and you shiver.

You slip on your nightgown, the hem of which is moistened by your damp hair as you do so, and cautiously thread back downstairs. Your companion is leaning against the back of the sofa, embarrassment written over her features.

"Do you want to go in now?" You ask, gesturing to the stairs. She definitely needs a shower, and both of you know it.

"Sorry about that," She mumbles, not even looking at you. "I, uh, didn't mean to stare-"

"Were you staring?"

"No! I didn't know you were there. But, don't take it the wrong way, but-"

"But what?"

"Well-"

"Well?"

"You have a nice body!" She's not shouting. But it's pretty close to it, and you reel back in surprise. It's a moment of silence, and she decides to break it. "Sorry."

"Thanks," You reply, stunned. It's not the most comfortable situation, but you feel warmth creep up on you. A compliment. It feels really nice, even if its delivery was rather awkward. "Also, don't worry about it, I... tend to stand there sometimes. I should've heard you knock. It's not your fault."

She rubs her temples, then heaves a long sigh. You sit down on the sofa and stretch out your arms in feigned comfort while silence envelops. With a little hesitation, Amethyst sits down besides you, and the silence is actually appreciated at this point. You're really not used to having somebody other than yourself at home. To be precise, you're not used to taking care of somebody - even the ghostly figure of your father didn't exactly count.

Though, between you and your dad, you had never actually seen each-other naked past infancy.

"So."

"Yeah."

"I should probably pay you back. Like, I can get a job, or something."

"With no birth certificate? No CV? No driving license? No passport, no ID card? No diploma?" You reply diligently, "I don't think you'd be able to even if you wanted to. I mean, unless you want to do dodgy jobs. I don't think that would be healthy for you, though."

She seems bitter. "Guess dodgy is what's left for me, huh?"

"Stop. They're /trying/ to help you, but you having nothing to your name does not help. You're just an odd case, Amethyst, there's nothing wrong with that - it should be sorted in a matter of time."

"An odd case."

Amethyst leans back, and you can make out a grin sprawled across her face. "Geez, Pearl, you're making me sound like one of those young adult novel heroines that you keep reading. They're always an odd case."

Did you actually ever tell Amethyst about your reading material? She's been in your humble abode for a little while now - even if you did tell her to make herself at home, you never expected her to take interest in your hobbies. It delights you, a little, to be able to see a discernible personality within the other girl - she's certainly adapting, and it's also beginning to annoy you. She still retains the humility of a freeloader, but to a much lesser extent.

You still have little idea as to why the doctor didn't diagnose this as retrograde amnesia. There's no better explanation to it, at least none that you know of.

"Well, I don't read about /my/ heroines making comments on a friend's body."

"You shut up!" Her face is a comical shade of red. "Has nobody ever told you that before?"

No.

"Not while naked."

You're certainly amused by how quickly your conversation shifts. Amethyst sticks out her tongue at you, and you wonder where she learnt those manners from. Probably a family trait. Against your better judgement, you return the gesture, and she falls back, howling with laughter. It's... actually somewhat charming.

"You look hilarious. Do it again!"

"I'm not going to."

"You're boring."

You hadn't known how nice it is to have a friend.


	4. Bloom

Your fingers dance over the keyboard, and the fast-paced little clicks that come from each button mix with low chatter from around the room. Strangers are seated on the lobby tables like they're at home, legs stretched out and mouths open in never-ending conversation; you feel vaguely annoyed that you never really get a moment of silence, but at least they're respectful enough not to bother you unless they need the key back to their room or want to book in. It's inexplicably popular for tourists during autumn.

The weather has been merciless lately, and you're REALLY glad for the heating. Granted, that beckons quite a few unwanted strangers who only bask in the warmth and have no intentions whatsoever of booking a room, but nobody kicks them out for some reason, and it's not your business to act unless they opt for something dodgy to pass their time with, which has been happening more often than you'd care to move for.

You retract your sore fingers from the keyboard and lean back into the material of the chair. You don't like hotels. They're cosy, but always feel too foreign for you to make yourself too comfortable, especially for a prolonged period of time. Then again, you don't treat yourself with holidays as often as you probably should. You have the funds, but never the motivation - maybe you should arrange something for once.

You do like this one, though. The walls are decorated with golden, swirly details over fresh white colours and several large paintings hang on them for your entertainment. They're nice to look at when you have nothing else to do but stare into the distance. They're French, you recall, and one of your favourite pastimes is to attempt to distinguish every each of their many colourful details. Oddly enough, customers have complained about them before, saying they "give them the creeps". Each to their own, right?

"Miss Robinson."

You nearly jump, even though the voice addressing you is gentle and warm. 

Rose Kalani - you recall her as the person who interviewed you, and you had found her so distractingly stunning you nearly stammered your way through the interview. Composure is your best trait, though, or at least you like to believe it is. A plump, sweet woman with regal ringlets that frame her face and hang down her back, and a motherly aura that wafts through the air every time she speaks to you. You know she's a married mother, so maybe that contributes to it. 

You like to think she's friends with you. She does act like it - greeting you warmly every time you cross ways, sometimes making small talk. Nothing interesting happens to you, so you usually have little to say, but the details of your new addition to your pitifully small household had poured out like a torrent once you knew you finally had material to talk about. She expressed polite interest and concern, but never really brought it back up, and neither did you.

You straighten up from your slouched position and offer her a somewhat nervous smile.

"Yes-?"

"Did I startle you? Oh, my bad. Your shift is ending soon, isn't it?"

"It is."

"Would you like to join me for a cup of coffee?"

You're not too fond of coffee - you hate its taste and the artificially invigorating effect it has on you which diminishes at the most inconvenient times. But Rose's amiable, honeyed tone coaxes you into nodding your head yes with an eager smile. Dammit, you're getting your hopes up. She's not single, and this is just a friendly gesture - though you do wonder whether she's ever detected your distant, starry-eyed gaze or the undertones of your voice. Have you been flirting? You don't know, and you hope not.

A client approaches the desk, and she walks away with subtle grace in her step. 

You exit the building once dismissed, coat draped over your arm, and immediately regret your choice of clothing. Rose, from a small distance, beckons you to follow, and you jog lightly after her until you fall into line. She doesn't seem too bothered by the crude weather, and you feel like an idiot trying not to shiver. During a moment of distraction, you put the coat on and button it over your shirt - it doesn't do much good, but it's an upgrade. You need a new wardrobe.

You know where you're going. You've learned from a source that Rose likes this bakery that you sometimes pass by when on your way home - said source may or may not have been a particularly chatty friend of hers whom you don't really listen to nor interact with too often. It's not creepy, is it, wanting to know more about someone without having to ask them directly?

The bakery has rows of windows from above it, upon old, faded out yellow colours. The building itself is not in disrepair, but looks old regardless, and not in an appealing way - you can differentiate places of charming age from outright neglect. There are two metal tables situated on both sides, but you don't even glance at them. You absolutely refuse to stay outside if you can avoid it. 

Your companion seems to get the hint and leads you inside - the door creaks unpleasantly, but you notice that the inside looks far more likeable. It's a relatively small space, and you easily recognize some of the customers that sit by and chat idly as some of the employees of your workplace. You wave a hand in greeting, mainly because you don't want to appear impertinent at this particular moment. They return the gesture vaguely.

"What would you like?"

Your chair feels cold. You look over the menu, as if in deep thought. You really don't care, honestly, as long as you don't find it terrible enough that you can't avoid your face crumbling in disgust when you take a sip. Eventually, your eyes linger on a choice with what you remember had a creamy taste to it. Macchiato, right? Was that the same drink?

"Okay."

Not like Rose seems too concerned about what you pick - she sips at her own steaming liquid once served, and you stir yours absentmindedly. She seems reluctant to talk, and you hadn't expected an invitation in the first place, so you don't know whether it's appropriate to pick up a conversation or not. 

You steal a few glances when her eyes are elsewhere, or closed as she inhales the scent of her coffee for a split moment before a sip. She's stunning. And she also looks like she has the power to drain her cup before you've even started with yours.

"I'll cut to the point." Her voice is lukewarm, with little ripples that disrupt its balance. You shrink in sudden fear - is she firing you? Wait, does she even HAVE the power to? Why are you worried about that? You haven't done badly in your job. It's a relatively straightforward task that you've been carrying out for a couple of years. To your relief, she doesn't bring up work, but you're nevertheless thrown back by her question.

"How is Amethyst?"

You're not surprised she remembered, but you still can't quite determine why she's bringing it up.

"She's fine. She seems reasonably healthy and content enough, but..." Your voice comes to a hush. Why are you so wary? Nobody cares about your conversation. "he tells me he has suspicions that she's lying about her condition." You refuse to believe that - she had looked too desperate and too lost when she had stumbled into your home. Rose purses her lips. "I mean, /I/ don't know. If he's right, that won't make it any easier on either of us."

"I'd like to see your friend."

"...Why?"

"This might sound a little strange to you, Miss Robinson, but I feel like I might be of help, and probably the only one to provide any. I would discuss the details with you, but not in public." Oh, damn it. You're curious now. Your cup has grown cold, too, but you're not in any mood to tend to it. 

"Um, sure, do you know my address? Or I could accompany you to-"

"If you can accompany me, that would be nice. What time is it suitable for you?"

You don't know what Rose knows, and that scares you. Once Rose is finished with your arrangement, she chats pleasantly to you about other topics. You're glad for the distraction, but are unable to focus on it, and your evening together ends pretty quickly. You part ways, and you hop on your bus home. 

It's a lonely walk home. Your neighbourhood isn't very lively - you do see passersby, but they feel like they aren't there at all. 

The skies are a pretty vermillion, your favourite colour for the sky to be. It's getting late.

As you insert your key into the lock of the front door, you briefly wonder how Amethyst will take to the news. There's no news, really - it's just an arrangement with yet unknown results. She's a child; lost, confused, overwhelmed, dependent. But she does have her moments of maturity.

You find her soundly asleep on the sofa, and a mess of cutlery, dishes and foam in the sink. 

You gently move a lock of brown hair away from her face; her features are relaxed and peaceful, the type of comfort you've been trying to achieve for years now. The thought of her leaving invades your mind often, and it always twists a conflicted knot in your stomach. She's not family, but she has sure made an effort to be a part of yours. 

You don't want to see her leave your life.


	5. Stem

One day, a stranger comes.

She’s at least a stranger to _you_ , of course. It just happens that you haven’t seen a single other person enter Pearl’s home, and you do have to wonder whether she has any friends. You’ve swiftly avoided interaction with your neighbours whenever it happened that you left the house and they happened to be outside – the most they’ve ever given you is a blank stare. They do not match the vitality of their homes.  


Said stranger is a woman, a plump, beautiful lady whose presence had calmed you before she was even introduced properly to you. She had come in after Pearl, who had looked at you once with a distant gaze, and then refused to maintain eye contact for the rest of your interaction. You’d smiled – was this her mother? You had a feeling it might be.  


She greets you warmly, and asks Pearl for permission to sit. She sits right next to you on the sofa, almost uncomfortably close, but she appears respectful enough to maintain a distance.  


“You’re Amethyst, correct?”  


“Yeeesss…?” It already feels like an interrogation.  


“Well, hello! I’m Rose, Rose Kalani.”  


You repress an urge to laugh. Sure, Pearl had confided in you about her workplace, but never mentioned she invites her supervisor along. You find it pathetically sad.  


“The reason I’ve come here,” She begins, slowly and gently, as if trying to deliver unpleasant news to a little child. “is because I wanted to meet you. I just might have my suspicions that I might know you, Amethyst.”  


Talk about a coincidence. “You don’t.”  


“Maybe not. I didn’t say I do for certain. I need you to tell me something.” Her tone takes on a sterner swirl. “How did you happen upon Waterbury? Tell me everything.”  


You reluctantly launch into explanation – how you had woken with a pounding headache by a river, just nearly close enough to have been caressed by the waves; your encounter with a gentle doctor, who had only offered you as much help as he could have at your state; you omit your petty theft; you mention a few brief scuffles which had left you tattered, but understate the effects of it; your trespassing into Pearl’s property.  
You pick your words very carefully and study Rose’s expression while you speak, which doesn’t change once. The more you speak, the more you realize just how little you’ve told Pearl. She never really asked you, either.  


She listens carefully, soaking in every each of your sentences.  


“Thank you. That is all I need to know.” She stands up, the skirt of her dress swaying with the motion. “I’m going to need to see you again sometime for confirmation.”  


“That’s alright.”  


She bids you a goodbye, and you find yourself alone with Pearl once again. Expectant, you stare at Pearl, and she either ignores your silent inquiry or just doesn’t see it.  


“What the hell was that about?”  


“She said she might be able to help.” is all she offers, and you draw an annoyed sigh, standing up. You feel a little stiff, but stagger up to her anyway, placing your hands on your hips. She finally looks at you, quizzically, as if she doesn’t owe you any more than that.  


“Why didn’t you warn me?”  


“I forgot.”  


“Pearl, you remember 5 weeks ago’s dinner.”  


“Carbonade flamande,” She reminds you, proudly, before her smug features shift into ones of scorn. “Seriously, Amethyst, you’re going to fight me over this? It happened, didn’t it, and she’s gone. She’s only trying to help.”  


“That was an awfully short visit, though.” You pause. “You seem to be quite fond of that woman.”  


She quirks a brow, and you continue, a little more confidently as you evaluate your past interactions. You’ve been told of Rose Kalani numerous times, in fact, with a look on Pearl’s face that had meant nothing more than enamourment. Oh, of course.  


“You liiiiike her.”  


“Pardon me? I’m not--! I’m not even into—actually, well—I’m—No!” She concludes her flurry of words, cheeks flushed a little too quickly, folding her arms. You grin, but the look on her face practically screams ‘not another word’, so you stay quiet to avoid invoking extra wrath.  


You’re confused, though, by the vague mannerisms of the woman, her equally vague promise, and just exactly what Pearl has told her, anyway. Before you can push it further, you notice your companion has retreated to her cushioned seat with a laptop on her knees, looking at it as it flashes a mixture of colours for a minute or so. You know it’s a time when she doesn’t want to be bothered, and so turn your attention to a magazine picked out at random from an earlier trip at the grocery store and settle back on the sofa.  


It’s hard to focus.  


It’s a tabloid, filled to the brim with celebrity figures and irrelevant little snippets of stories you don’t want to know. You glance over at one of them, a particularly convenient-looking picture of a middle-aged man, the visage of which is soon embedded into your head for some reason.  


You can hear Pearl tapping ceaselessly in the background, with little pauses every few seconds or so.  


“Hey, Pearl?”  


“Yes?”  


“How come you never talk about your family?”  


The tapping stops, and you can almost feel her stiffen without having to get up to witness it. You don’t quite know what brought up the topic, anyway.  


“You’ve never asked.”  


“Well, tell me about your family, then.”  


“Why?”  


“I want to know,” You insist, a little too demandingly, even for your own liking. “I dunno if I have one of mine, so I just wanna know how it is with others, I guess. And you’re the closest here, sooo…”  


Silence. It dawns on you that she was politely trying to steer you away from the topic, and resolve to shut the fuck up after a few minutes of receiving no response. She doesn’t resume her typing, though.  


“They were nice,” She speaks, out of the blue, and you snap out of temporary reverie. “I suppose. I was an only child. Look in the drawer.”  


_Which_ drawer?  


You heave yourself up, scanning the room for anything that might match her vague explanation. She eventually points somewhere behind you, without looking up from the laptop.  


You approach a rusty-looking cupboard that stands below the windows and slowly pull its drawers open – one of them is empty, the other with little trinkets and jewelry, and the last, with framed pictures laid down in a pleasingly linear fashion.  


You pick out one of the pictures, which appears to be a typical family portrait – a gorgeous, tall blonde, with glimmering eyes, a man in his twenties with dark strands of hair framing his face, and… a little scrawny urchin, standing in the middle, with not even an artificial smile to fit the cheery mood of the picture.  


Your gaze flickers between the girl in the picture and Pearl – you’re mesmerized by the difference. Puberty’s work, possibly, or that’s somebody else. You don’t know why you’re even considering this.  


“Your mother looks pretty,” You remark. “Guess I know where you get your looks from.”  


Another period of silence.  


You take it as a chance to look over the other pictures – some are from a wedding, some of scenery, with only a few of the actual family. You quickly scan through one of Pearl and another…  


_Wait a minute._  


“Thanks.”  


She seems to pick her replies at awfully random intervals. It annoys you a little, but you don’t comment on it, and silently press the picture onto your stomach as you shut the drawers, and move your hands behind your back as you amble back to the sofa. When assured you’re out of sight, you tuck it under a pillow.  


After a moment, she speaks again.  


“Nobody has told me that before.”  


You’re momentarily stunned.  


“Nobody has told you you’re pretty, or that you look like your mother?”  


“Um, both. But mostly the latter. I never saw a resemblance.”  


“Well, it was a compliment.”  


“I know.”  


This is absolutely one of the strangest conversations you’ve had with her so far. Perhaps she needs cheering up of a sort – you’re definitely onto that challenge.  


You move yourself next to her, and heave yourself up on the arm of the chair, which alarms her thoroughly.  


“So that would mean you haven’t been fliirted with?” You pose, as much as your uncomfortable sitting position allows, in a mock-seductive fashion.  


“Get off.”  


“Oh, Pearl, you’re such a wonderful employee,” You try your best to mimic Rose’s voice from earlier, leaning dangerously close. She looks, if anything, horrified, but doesn’t make a full-hearted attempt to stop you. “Purrhaps you deserve a prrrromotion, hmm?” With a wiggle of your brows, you continue, “If ya know what I mean?”  


“Stop.”  


There’s a glimpse of amusement in her eye, and you chuckle in an artificially sweet manner that makes you cringe a little. “Perhaps we could take it,” Your voice comes to a dramatic hush. “ _In the bedroom?_ ”  


She’s laughing. That’s good – but you don’t notice yourself losing balance, and before you can regain it, you end up toppling right on your poor friend, who at least foresees the event quickly enough to shut her laptop.  


Unfortunately, you’re somewhat heavy, and the chair leans backwards and eventually crashes down, with you two on top. Your entire body screams, _physical contact_ , but you’re stunned, she’s stiff, and neither of you move. You lift up your stomach, as her beloved electronic device digs into it, and eventually stand up.  


“Um.”  


She’s the first one to speak, and the last. You had expected a scolding, but you only receive passiveness, and she doesn’t move for a while after you’ve gotten off. You don’t really move, either, and instead stand there, awkwardly, rubbing your arm and staring back in dazed confusion.  


She calmly lifts the chair up, moving the laptop back onto it, and ascends up the stairs without a word.  


Your face is likely some dark shade of red. 

Very likely. 

You’re silent and unmoving for a while as your brain processes the happenstance, then you walk back towards the sofa, lift up the pillow, and survey the picture and its frame in peace.  


It’s definitely Pearl, with a tiny, chubby, shorter girl with a ponytail of a muddy brown colour and a grin resembling your own.


	6. Growth

You don’t see Rose for days to come.  


Pearl has been acting strange. Granted, she’s been acting strange since you first met, but there’s a notable difference in your already limited interaction. She distracts you with menial tasks around the house, errands outside, or buys you a book or two of the novellas with bizarre heroines, but you don’t think you actually _talk_.  


You’re a little distracted yourself, anyway. The picture you’d looted from her belongings has been a persistent image in your mind, and Pearl’s frequent absence allows you to wonder and inspect it. You don’t see a date, nor a name, nothing on the frame but old scars on wood.  


You don’t remember when you made the decision to, but one day, you raid her room. You try to be nice enough to at least avoid her more personal belongings, but you still search her papers, and eventually locate a scribbled address of her workplace on a discarded sheet. You press it on your chest and quietly try to arrange the mess you’ve made back into some form of order.  


You’re not a prisoner, of course. You could just ask. But bringing it up would mean having to explain yourself, and you don’t want to risk that, so you only consider your next option. Transport. You have no actual money of your own. With pursed lips and a guilty conscience, you gather up coins and banknotes neatly tucked into a small wooden box by her bedside. You’ll just pay her back later.  


That’s still theft.  


You’ll get over it.  


You ask a load of people, pointing at the address, as you embark, with quite a few proving to be of less help than you would’ve liked, but you’re eventually directed to a bus stop. You help yourself to a seat on the bench and lean back, observing the traffic.  
If there ever were a form of transport you’d use, it would be a motorcycle. They’re cool.  


A bus comes to a halt, and you peek at its number, then reluctantly climb in. You pay the fare and settle onto an empty seat next to a woman who seems to be lost in the moving scenery behind the window.  


“Excuse me,” You whisper, and she looks at you, offering a smile. “I’m a bit new here... would you mind telling me where to stop so I can get to 777 Chase Parkway?”  


“Certainly. It’s a few stops away. How long have you been here?”  


“Oh, a few months, give or take.”  


“Tourist?”  


“Mm, sort of.”  


“I’ve been here for 23 years, and I still get lost,” She chuckles, stretching her feet a little. “Where do you come from, then?”  


You freeze. Dammit, you don’t have an answer to that. “Um, Massachusetts.”  


“I see.”  


With any luck, you might ACTUALLY be from Massachusetts, but for the moment, it’s a big, fat lie that succeeds in ending the conversation. She seems distant, and you worry that she might have forgotten to guide you, but as the bus comes to another stop, she gently nudges you.  


“You’re going to have to do a bit of walking.”  


“That’s fine, thanks.”  


“Have fun!” She demands with a chipper tune to her voice, and you climb out, a little dazed from the rush of fresh air. You’re still forced to seek the help of passersby, but it takes a lot less time to navigate, mesmerized by the change of environment.  


It appears a lot more active than the neighbourhood of your current residence, a flurry of people in a nearly constant rush, and even in their evident absentmindedness, they’re still alert enough to avoid you if they can help it. You don’t really want to interact with them, either, so you’re on your way.  


The hotel building appears a bit more grandiose than you’d imagined it, but still retains an aura of austerity. You’re disappointed in the bland, light colours, but it’s not something you should be worrying about – you march on, stealthily peeking through the glass door.  


You can see Pearl’s peach hair from afar – wow, you really didn’t think this through.  


An employee seems to notice your stalking from behind the door and raises a brow at you, but otherwise says nothing. You sneak in, anyway, and make a dash for one of the corridors.  


“Hey, what’s this about?” The employee is a persistent fucker, as you notice – you can hear him behind your back as he catches up with you, hands on hips. “Do I need to call security on you?”  


“No! Don’t. I’m just looking, for uh... Rose, do you know a Rose?”  


“There are a few Roses here, and none of them will get to see you if you act suspiciously.”  


“Please, it’s important. Big, curly hair, tall?”  


“Well, we might have a Rose like that, but I wouldn’t know your intentions.”  


“What’s all the chaos about?”  


Lo and behold, you recognize the voice, warm and soothing and puzzled as it reaches your ears. She seems to recognize you immediately, as her features brighten up.  


“Amethyst! I didn’t know Miss Robinson brought you.”  


You purse your lips. “She didn’t.”  


“Ah, well, whatever brought you here?”  


The employee quietly shuffles away, not wanting to be involved. You pick up the picture, tucked under your arm, and practically shove it at the woman, who appears startled as she takes it from you.  


“Oh.”  


Her gaze moves, several times, from you to the picture and vice versa, as if to confirm the resemblance that you swear exists. She bites on her lip.  


“Oh my.”  


You watch her, expectantly, a little ashamed of your abrupt movements.  


“That confirms... a lot, actually. We shouldn’t be discussing this here. Please follow,” She leads you towards a small, homely-looking room with beige walls and a desk. She seats herself, gesturing you to do the same.  


You’re silent as she bends down under her desk, and hear a bit of rustling that soon dissolves as she slides a stack of paper onto the surface, and sits up, looking stern.  


“From what I’ve been told, Amethyst, you’re an odd case. Your doctor is reluctant to diagnose you with amnesia – that’s peculiar at best and suspicious at worst. It tells me that you might not be telling the whole truth.”  


“I’m telling you what I _know_.” You snap, annoyance boiling in your gut.  


“And I believe you,” She reassures you immediately. “but I have the right to be wary. I have an option, right here.”  


She fans through the stack, cautiously picking out a sheet, which she presents to you. A birth certificate.  


“Amelia Sawyer. Born November, 2018, unwittingly involved in a very immoral cause, disappeared at the approximate age of 13, considered deceased.”  


“What immoral cause?”  


“You were-“ Rose stops herself, then continues again. “ _Amelia_ was a foundling among a number of children that were under the guardianship of the Decorum Syndicate. The DS hasn’t been spoken of for years, but they... I’m not going to sugarcoat it. They were experimenting on children.”  


“...What?”  


“The Decorum Syndicate claimed to aim to condition kids to prosperity, but said ‘conditioning’ happened to be a nice dose of chemicals.” She has a straight face, but you can tell the spark of anger in her tone. “Of course, I can’t say whether it’s you or not-“  


“How was this _legal?_ ”  


“It wasn’t. Let me finish. Amelia wasn’t the first disappearance, but is the only one that I can conclude, with some degree of certainty, is at least alive.”  


“This is a lot to take in. I’m gonna need a moment.”  


“Amethyst, it’s not certain whether it’s you or not.”  


You feel something rise up in your chest, and you quickly locate the garbage bin and unload this morning’s breakfast into it. No, this isn’t your fucking backstory. It feels wrong, it IS wrong, it shouldn’t be.  


Rose offers you a handkerchief, and you sit again, dabbing at the corners of your mouth. “Do you need the bathroom?”  


“Just a glass of water, please...”  


She stands up and leaves the room. You’re left alone with the unpleasant taste in your mouth.  


Once she’s back, you down the liquid, which doesn’t wash away the taste, but helps immensely. She waits for you to collect yourself.  


“Okay, now that this is a thing... what does Pearl have to do with this?”  


“I don’t have permission to look into the Robinson archives, so I can’t quite tell you. This is all I can provide you with, I’m afraid, for now. Maybe you should’ve waited until my next visit, though.”  


“I‘d have to admit I stole this,” You gesture to the picture. “And cut me some slack. I got here just fine. Some woman thinks I’m from Massachusetts, but I don’t think I’ve been THAT suspicious...”  


“How DID you get here?”  


“By bus?”  


“Anyways,” She draws a sigh. “You should probably get home, and I have work to get to. I can call you a cab, if you want, or call Miss Robinson over.”  


“A cab would be great, thank you. Um, you’re paying, right?”  


“Of course.”  


In the end, you’re helped out by a couple of other employees to the back exit, and board a vehicle which whizzes past unfamiliar streets. You lean back, trying not to focus on any of them.  


Your grip your necklace, a cheap, useless trinket, reminiscent of a story you should have known. You don’t notice yourself pulling on it, and it comes off of your neck.  


You toss it out from the open window, and watch, for a brief moment, as it flies off in the opposite direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (tosses a fucking cliffhanger @u )


	7. Petals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yes hello what are updates

Amethyst has been cold. 

You think you may know why – the missing chunk of dollar bills from your extra savings intended for frivolities said a lot by itself when you came home earlier the other day. Since then, she has, without subtlety, treated you like a pest in your own house.

You know she’s learned something unpleasant, and holds you responsible for it.

Her necklace is missing.

It’s little things that make all the difference. You feel like a stranger to her after days of finally building some form of closeness.

You peek up from your work on the screen - it’s a short novel, actually, that you’ve been working on for purely the sake of distracting yourself. It worked, to an extent, but now you’re just agitated with it. Amethyst is at the sink.

“Will you talk to me about whatever the hell is wrong with you those days?” You don’t want to be mean, really, but her choice to hold a grudge rather than confront you is irritating. “You’ve been so rude, and you’ve never told me a thing! I won’t believe I deserve this treatment until you give me a plausible reason as to why I do.”

She slams on the counter, and you mentally prepare yourself for a shouting. She doesn’t say a thing, though, not immediately, at least.

“Okay, well... you’re right. I am being immature. Sorry.” She sounds sincere enough, but the tone in her voice unsettles you. “I guess it’s time to settle this, right? I want you to explain something to me.”

She drags herself towards the couch and picks out an item from it – you lay your eyes on a framed picture, and then on her gaze, which burns with a range of mixed emotions. You feel your own drained away from you, and you open your mouth to say something, but she cuts you off.

“I came to see Rose.”

“I guessed that much,” You respond, bitterly.

“She told me about the syndicate. And I think you’d care to explain who this girl is, and why you’ve been withholding information from me.”

You place your laptop back in its case. She looks impatient.

“That girl in the picture has been considered dead for years.” You start, venom dripping in your own voice. The last thing you want is to be mad – she deserves to know, and you probably have little reason for your bitterness, but it’s still not a pleasant conversation by a wide margin. “You’re right about one thing. It had to do with the Decorum Syndicate.”

“They assigned me /her/ to our family when I was little. I didn’t know why. We were just told to take care of her for a set amount of time. And let me tell you, that girl had problems. She’d be the gentlest person one moment, and then hurt something or someone next. I kept it from my parents, but /they/ still found out and took her away.” You inhale sharply; Amethyst’s expression softens. “And then she just... disappeared. We were only involved enough to have to take care of her and knew the minor update. We were told she was dead.”

“And then, years later, you show up to my doorstep. I thought she was you. I thought you, she, might remember me, or at least my parents. I didn’t want to have to break information /I don’t know/ to you. So I left it to be.”

“When Rose told me about the syndicate, I... wanted to tell you, really. But take a walk in my shoes, Amethyst. Say I don’t remember a thing, and you find out I’m an orphan that’s had chemicals in my brain that shouldn’t be there and messed me up beyond recognition as a kid, because that’s what you were when we took you in. Would you want to tell me that? You were building up a nice future here, without having to know THIS past of yours. I wanted to shield you. What I learned about the syndicate is horrible.”

She falls silent to soak in your words, and you stand up. 

Just saying all of that has drained you of your energy, too. She looks upset – but when she looks at you, she radiates determination. “I want to know about the syndicate.”

“Fine. But I’m not going to be involved in your search for that information.”

“Then... tell me about when I... /she/ was a child.”

You had stories, of course.

When Amelia was brought to your house by two gentle women, she was shy, refusing to meet your gaze. You’d learned she didn’t know many basic pleasures – eating ice cream, splashing mud when nobody is looking and sneakily washing it off later, and though your parents were strict, paying more attention to you than they had at any other point to ensure the girl was in the vicinity, it had triggered a rebellious streak in you. She grew out of her shell very quickly and became a friend that you’d never had.  
You describe your encounters in detail, having memorized them from your diary and memories, and she listens, wide-eyed, smiling a little. Your stories come to a halt as you remember the day she left your house indefinitely.

“Do you know anything about the necklace?” She asks, a little embarrassed, looking down at her neck, now bared of the trinket. “I... threw it away. I don’t think I should have.”

“No idea.”

“Oh, okay. I would have felt bad if it was, like, a gift from you, or something. Like a memento.”

Something pops up in your mind, and you smile at her. “Why don’t you come with me?”

You’re a bit surprised she’s taking it so well, really. You lead her out of the house and towards a bus stop – she squeezes your hand, and doesn’t let go of it even with the discomfort written over her face. 

The two of you climb up into the bus that comes to a halt, and you pay the fare. As she sits down, Amethyst takes in the view from behind the glass of the window.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been on a bus. It’s really cool!”

“Wait until you’ve been on a plane.”

“I highly doubt I’ll get an opportunity for that,” She says, a bit sadly. “Where would I go and why?”

“You could very well be a tourist, you know.”

“True. But I’d feel stupid.”

“Stupid?”

“In terms of education. I feel stupid around here, even.”

“You know you could always take GED courses?”

“I guess.” She shrugs her shoulders and grins at you. “Where we goin’, anyway?”

You don’t answer.

When you come to a stop and climb out, you find yourself amongst a busy neighbourhood, and definitely more modern than your boring suburban area. Sunlight  
graces the buildings and you two, until you walk into shade. 

“We’re having fun today.”

“Excuse me?”

You don’t remember, if it had even happened at all, when the last time was that you went out into the city together. She doesn’t seem displeased, though, and follows you into one of the malls that you’ve been visiting infrequently. 

She’s excited now. 

“That’s... woah. Big.”

Before you’ve even had the chance to explain anything, she runs up to one of the jewellery stalls, and takes a bit of time before picking out a long, silver chain. You search your bag for your purse, and just before you locate it, she’s back.

Without indication, she goes behind you, and you feel the cold metal on your skin. 

You look down – it’s a silver flower with a pearl in the middle.

“A pearl for a Pearl,” She explains, looking very pleased with herself. You’re stunned.

“How did you pay for this...?”

“Yard work. Did you know we have some really nice neighbours around here? I didn’t.”

“You did this all for—thank you, Amethyst.” You fiddle with the necklace, then look back towards the stall to see its owner waving. “Did you get your change back?”

“Shit, no. Hold on.”

You treat her to a movie – an action comedy, which she laughs almost all the way throughout, annoying many attendants and nearly getting you ejected from the screening. Her laugh is infectious, though, and it’s when you join in that you’re politely asked to leave.

Then fast food. You don’t join in as much, but she seems to love the fries and pays for a second portion with her remaining money. Any discomfort is wiped from her face by now, and she engages in conversation with you with more ease than you’ve seen her do.

Right as she’s at the last fry left in the little paper bag, she stops, though, all of her excitement seeping away.

“Listen, I know you don’t want to think about this, just as much as I don’t want to think about this, too.” She starts gently, as if trying to comfort /you/ for her whole ordeal. “But let’s be honest from now on. Please? I won’t get mad at you without saying why as long as I know what you know. I like you, and... I don’t want to fight about this anymore. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had and it would suck if secrecy ruined it, y’know?”

You nod in silence.

She finishes off and you hang around some of the shops for a couple of more hours, then head back home.  
This time, you let her sleep in your room, and she’s quick to fall into slumber on your bed. You explore rooms that you haven’t allowed to let yourself in for a long, long time.

Your mother’s bedroom. The attic. 

You think back to Amethyst’s determined outlook on her scenario, and how strong she was with handling the ton of vague, unsettling information.

You can’t shield her forever. You will have to help.

You dial a number on your phone and press it to your ear. It rings for a while, until a sleepy voice reaches you. You swallow.

“Hi, dad. We need to talk.”


	8. Wither

The voice of your father perks up a bit with confusion - it's understandable. You've never really talked to him past small talk and business, and, in any case, the distance between you two is not solely your fault. He seems silent for a moment, at which point you can only hope he'll agree to talk about what's necessary.

"Oh, Pearl. This is unexpected." It drops back into a semi-sleepy tone for a very brief period of time before he picks up alertness again. You swallow your anxieties, but his words seep into you anyway. "What do you need to talk about?"

It's a simple question. There is nothing more simple and justified in asking for clarification, but you freeze anyway. His voice feels foreign, and so does yours - how do you initiate a conversation like that? You scramble to give him a response when your silence prolongs, but instead of what you've been pushing for, all that came out was a, "I just wanted to check on you."

"Check on me?" He's in disbelief. You know that _this_ is your fault, given the moments in which you've shown any sort of concern have been scarce. But, all the same, his response to yours is quick. He switches between words, obviously trying to find the right thing to say, like you have. You've always known his demeanor is meek - and it surprises you when the sentence that comes from the other line is laced with the slightest bit of anger. "You haven't spoken to me in years."

Things become awkward when people point out the elephant in the room - with a sharp breath, you try to find an appropriate reply. Apologize; this is not what you called for, this is not the conversation you should be having right now. Or just change the subject. Just change it while it's still safe.

And yet, a similar emotion rises up in your chest. It's not quite anger, but it seeps into the words that you breathe out. "Oh, and you have been making SO many attempts to stay in touch with me!"

"What did you really call for?"

His tone is cool, and it throws you back just how much you've underestimated his ability to read you like an open book. You take a moment to compose yourself. "About the syndicate. You know what I'm talking about, and I need to know what you know. How were you involved in that? I know you were."

You think you might have chosen the worst possible moment to shift the subject. You're still bitter, and any trace of the gentle-natured man you've known through observations of mild curiousity is gone. After all, you're speaking to a stranger. It's essentially a stranger, as you are to him.

He pauses. "Why do you need to know?"

"It's important."

"Oh, alright, be vague! Tells me just enough about how much you actually need it."

You puff out your cheeks, dragging out another long, annoyed sigh. Breathe. Be reasonable--

"I'm giving you the chance to do ONE GOOD thing for me in your entire lifetime and you're denying me this?!"

It comes out louder than you intended it to be. You place your hand over your mouth, peeking at the staircase in mild fear that you might have woken Amethyst. You only find silence, both from the house and from the other side of the line, and use the time to revert back into normality. It works only partially. "You have no right to be angry. The most we've ever talked during my CHILDHOOD is when I was eight. And by God will I remember that. You, and my mother, you're both... I don't even have the right word for it! If you're not going to tell me, then I'm ending this here."

You hang up, forcibly, and lose control of your body almost immediately. 

Slumping down onto the floor, you scramble for the closest object, which happens to be a discarded book, and scream silently into its pages. Decades of nearly the same thing. You don't even have the strength or desire to cry - it's just emptiness, filled up with pent-up frustration. 

Your phone rings.

You allow it to.

At the third time it resumes its irritating sound, you haul yourself upwards and pick it up. "And another thing-!"

"Please, let me talk."

"Fine."

"I'm sorry I haven't been there for you. I was never cut out to be a father, nor was your mother cut out to be a mother. It happened, and... no, I'm not saying you were unwanted. I would never say or even think of that in the whole world."

You roll your eyes. "Sure you wouldn't."

"Look, I... your mother had problems. You're right. We were both involved in the syndicate. But for her, it was personal, you see... maybe she had been just raised that way, I don't know, I can't know, but she-- Pearl, do you remember the nice ladies that came for tea frequently?"

"Er, yes."

"They were, as was she, a part of the syndicate. Don't get me wrong, I do not support their methods, but their hearts were in the right place. At least, I've believed so. They have been successful, too. I've seen the fruits of their progress. Happy children reunited with their loving families, or the families of another. They were _alright_ , Pearl. Uprooted from the worst of situations, all the trauma and everything and they were OKAY. This was the future of our children! To rid them of what plagues their little heads and give them manners and we'd have a whole new generation of healthy people."

_Healthy?_ Was that how people viewed it? 

You don't want to fight about this, so you press on. "How were you involved, then?"

"Well, for a little while... we were considered to adopt one or two of those children. But mostly, we were a placeholder family to observe their progress and how they behave. That's how. We have had a few, which I'm sure you must remember."

A moment passes for you to process the information. "Does the name Amelia sound familiar to you?"

He clicks his tongue. "Why, yes. I remember little Amelia. She was getting along so well with you! But the process failed on her. And they had to..."

Your eyes widen at his pause, and you hitch your breath. "You aren't telling me they were going to KILL her?!"

"Lord almighty, no! That was against their conduct. But they had to restart the process. And something failed, again. I think she died in the process."

You allow yourself to breathe. "No. She didn't die. In fact... she's in this house with me, and has been for the past few months."

"...How did this happen?"

"Loss of memory, and she stumbled upon my house. And then she started learning things, and so did I. She wants to know. I want to help her as much as I can with this. She deserves to know that, okay?"

He pauses, again, and so do you. It seems that she's still sound asleep - it doesn't surprise you, given how late it is. You fiddle with your necklace, and he speaks up again. "You really care for this girl, don't you?"

"I love her with all of my heart."

There is a certain confidence in your tone, even if your own words throw you back a little. It's like a weight off your shoulders, and simultaneously extra on top of it, and you're nervous, and you're calm, you're happy and you're panicked. The sentence bounces off the walls of the room and dies just as quickly as it had come. 

You can almost feel contentment radiating from the other side.

"Then make her happy."

Another period of silence. "I want you to know that, despite everything, I've always loved you. I'm sorry I could never show it. I wasn't a good father."

"And I'm sorry I didn't reach out to you after she died. You suffered this worse than I did. I should have been there for you, too, and I didn't out of my own spite."

"Thank you, Pearl." He draws out a sigh. "I think it's time to say goodnight. It's late."

"Goodnight, dad."

"Night, pumpkin."

With that, he hangs up the phone. You smile, as for the first time in your life, you have felt a connection with one of the constant strangers in your life.

And now you have bigger problems to worry about.


	9. NOTICE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author ends this.

Hello.

I know you're probably a little disappointed in this update, but I'm gonna have to close this for good.

I'm not happy with this work. I know some of you are, and I appreciate your continuous support, but my grip on it slipped and I don't feel like I did it as well as I could have; I have the story thought out but I feel like it was sloppily presented. 

To those who are curious about the general resolution of the story; After a bit of DS-related drama, Amethyst is briefly overwhelmed by the new burden of her past and runs away. She does come to terms with it, enters an official relationship with Pearl, and sets off to resume her education and get her life together. 

This will be deleted eventually. Thank you for staying through it, though.

Edit: The 'slipping skills' note under this is from the previous chapter/s and I have no idea how to fix it sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah i know my writing skills have been slipping sorry


End file.
